Memoirs of a High School Hell
by Pooka Neko1
Summary: A person is having some freaky flashbacks... along with memories of how terrible high school was... (The bathrooms!!)


Memoirs of a High School Hell  
  
By: Pooka Neko  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that I'm going to write a crack about. so if you think the original stuff is bad, then complain to them, not me. And. Um. tell me if you'd like a prequel or a sequel next. And do keep in mind that this is mostly alternate reality.  
  
By the time I had hit fifteen, I knew whom I was, where I was going, and what I was going to do. Or so I though. Fate kind of screwed that for me. Life had always been a game, in which you used a dice to play. I often ended up with snake eyes, as you could see. Yes, you've most likely heard of my life. You have read X, right? Well, Aoki loved my life so much, he decided to write up something on me, in which he called, "X". What the fuck is up with that name? Unfortunately, he's still writing it, as my life still intrigues him.  
  
In fact, I am not writing in a journal, as you may expect someone of my age. Fuck journals, and whoever invented them. I, in fact, I have a mental voice that does not shut up. I tolerate it for a few hours, but then the memories come back. There's only one way to get rid of the memories. they often come and go without me knowing.  
  
"Oni! Oni!" they had screamed. "Oni eyes! Oni eyes!" the children shouted, as I, a young second grader, black silly hair loving my soft skin so much it would cup my cheeks. To a contrast from the black and white, a violet light shone from the irises of my eyes. Oni eyes. how many children had taken a stick and poked my eyes? How many of them had found it funny to chase me after school and throw rocks at me?  
  
Of course today was different. I would never forget today. Today. today.  
  
Before a rock could land on my head once again, a hand shot up and caught it. My demon eyes opened to see a boy, a tad bit older than I. He looked more masculine then myself, and somehow, I felt as if I should had leaned forward and shown him my neck. If I had a tail, I would have buried it between my hind legs. But this boy was different. He faced the children with a menacing glare and shouted something to them that I cannot, for the life of me, remember. And a girl my age was by his side. Who were these two?  
  
After the children scurried away like the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz (Which is still one of my favorite books to date.), the two looked at me, and they did not poke at my eyes, or scream and throw rocks at me. The girl seemed to smile as the boy threw the rock as the last few children. They were Monou, Fuuma and Kotori. Birds seemed to clutter at Kotori's side, along with other animals that just seemed to love her. A cold and collected respect hung around Fuuma's atmosphere. They were my friends at that instant. Of course, it wasn't too much later that I learned my mother and their mother were good friends. It also wasn't too much later when I learned that we had to move away, as I was a fourth grader then, and I thought everything had a good purpose. Of course I'd see the two again. And we would all be happy, just like the old times.  
  
But that was not to be. And high school was horrible. The first day, I had been wandering through the halls, late for Algebra, and I had lost my class schedule. I rushed inside, only to be met by an Asian teacher wearing a shirt and short khakis. Later, I learned to hate this teacher. He liked all the kids who were in sports, not in art, thank-you-very-much.  
  
After that, I ran to my art class, where all the children would draw pictures of guys, or girls looking into mirrors and the teacher would ooh and aah. When she saw my artwork, usually something of the likes of Escher, or Salvador Dali, she would sigh and say, "Really, you should take some hints from the other children's artwork." That only made me give up art, sophomore year.  
  
Third period was French, in which I could never get. Too hard, and language just wasn't my thing. How was I supposed to remember how to conjugate verbs, or the infinitive? It wasn't important to me. Until of course, my teacher recommended me out of that class. Then I worked my hardest.  
  
Fourth period was English one, and the class was filled and people were saving their seats for their friends who were late instead of leaving them for the kids who actually got to class on time. I ended up sitting on the ground for the rest of the period. They told me they would get a desk for me soon. They never did. The teacher was hard, and I ended up with a D, for not trying.  
  
Lunch was no help at all, either. I had no friends, as I was still demon eyes. Nobody wanted to talk to a new child, who was from (Oh, gasp, shriek, faint) Tokyo. Not only that, they avoided me because they called me a bastard. If only they knew. I retreated to a spot underneath a tree, near the stairs, where I could eat my lunch and read at the same time without worrying about other children coming to bug me. Finally, some goths got to noticing me, as they liked how I looked, with the black against white with a side of violet. Still, I avoided them, as it scared me to be by anyone who enjoyed pulling girl's long golden hair out of their head. Not that I had anything against them. but let's face it. I was a loner. That was the way I was meant to be, and I was going to stay that way.  
  
Fifth period was physical education. Let's just say that I tried my hardest and still ended up with an F. When I ran, I was too slow to ever make eight laps. When I did push ups, I had to do the "girl" push ups. I could do ten sit ups in ten minutes, at least! Nobody obviously appreciated a bishounen who didn't like physical education, I guess.  
  
Finally, sixth period was science. I got a C, mainly because when we had to dissect a frog, I told the teacher that it conflicted with my religious values. I think he fell for it, but when he asked me why it didn't conflict with my religious values to dissect a sheep's eye, I think he was starting to catch on to me.  
  
The only thing I ever liked after school was walking home. I was at peace, walking beneath the cherry blossoms when they blossomed. Often, I would grab a bunch of them and make a tiara for my mother. My mother was my only friend at the time. She loved me and when I got bad grades, she would tell me, "At least you tried." I remember sleeping next to mother as her dark hair fell on my face, the smell of laundry and cooking all over her tired body. It was only then that I realized the importance of my mother in life. She was the one, the only one in fact, who understood. And I would have her for the rest of my life. She would always be there to ask me, "Why are you late? Did the wind keep you back?" I would always obey mother's orders, as I never wanted her angry with me.  
  
Until it came. It had no right to come like that, to take her away like that! To ravage her beautiful body like that! I remember, coming home from school, and happy to see my mother again. She told me that there were lots of things to do around the house, so I had better start helping or else she'd make me bake cookies. Having a fear of cookies at that time (I will not explain why, it's a long story) I ran out to help with the laundry. When I was finished, I was bored and decided that it was best to buy a present for mother, since it was Mother's Day. I walked over to the nearest store, and came back home with a bag in my hands. When I got back home. I found the windows ablaze; the door red hot with flames that I could not keep down. Searching for my mother, I felt as worried as an opossum looking for her children that were not on her back. Coming around the back of the house, I saw mother, her body already covered with cinders, as her body was on fire. She pointed her finger at me, and I didn't even hear the words she shouted. I felt them. I could feel her death pounding on me, and by the time the fire fighters had come, and the fire was out. My knees were covered with soot, my face no longer white, but black from my mother's clothes, as I rubbed them on my cheeks, trying to find some remnant of her left. Gone. she was gone.  
  
Other memories flashed by my head, but that one pounded on me the most. Another one often came to me, when my eyes had been gummed over by blood, as I held the one body that meant something to me. But I tried to banish it once again. I didn't need it, the face often told me. You don't need to know who I am. The bloodied face would often ring her glassy blue eyes over to me and smile quietly. Just hush. there's nothing to worry.  
  
**  
  
Wiping away the memories, the young man of eighteen years wiped his eyes. He was tired of thinking of the past, and it often caught up with him in the worst circumstances. He was tired of thinking of the others. He didn't need them he told himself quietly. But the memories still haunted him.  
  
Looking out his window, into the dank dark streets of Osaka, the young man pulled out a bottle and needle. He never wanted to see those memories again, ever again. Never wanted to hear from them, or to see what they wanted from him in return. Hadn't he done enough? Wasn't it good enough? No. never. It was never good enough.  
  
Pulling up his sleeve, he exposed an arm with long slashes across the wrist, going up instead of across. Never accomplished, yet at least he had tried. Taking the evil memories in a shaking hand, the young man plunged it into his skin and felt somehow better. As he relaxed, he got one last image of the decapitated head before he plunged into bliss. 


End file.
